[THE BIRD’S MATERNAL CARE.]
The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door.
A shadowy tree, that grew beside
Its city owner’s door,
Its branches threw so high and wide,
That many a bird could sing, and hide
Among the leaves it bore.
A robin came, and built her nest
In that green rustling tree.
At evening, there she sank to rest
And furled her weary wings, as blest
As little bird could be.
Upon her side her drowsy head,
Beneath her folded wing,
She pillowed, while the night-hours fled;
When morning flushed the east with red,
She ’d wake, and mount, and sing.
Five pretty eggs of azure hue,
In that soft nest she laid.
So clear and vivid was their blue,
Like polished balls they shone to view,
Of purest sapphire made.
And many a day she brooded o’er
Those treasures, till they grew,
In what the shells contained before,
To something different—something more—
Young birds came peeping through!
Five little baby birds were there,
In that fond robin’s nest,
All callow; and their mother’s care
Was now to find their daily fare,
And shield them with her breast.
Her tiny game, or berries ripe
From some far distant stem
She ’d bring them; then her beak she ’d wipe,
And sit upon a twig, and pipe
A mother’s tune to them.